The Virtue of Conflict
by Donelle
Summary: What does not kill us…
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Virtue of Conflict

**Rating:** PG-13 for character whump and some strong words

**Summary:** What does not kill us…

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the recognizable/original characters, places or things. I made no profit off of this story. I do own this plot and any new characters/places/things.

**WARNING:** There is a fair bit of graphic torture and trauma in this story. It is the reader's responsibility to decide whether they will find the material objectionable.

* * *

They start with his fingernails. Clearly they are traditionalists. The thought is strangely comforting to Colby, although it does not quell his shouts as the pliers do their work. The torture is excruciating, but time consuming. He counts the seconds in his head, imagining what the team is doing, how much closer to rescue he is.

The questions do not vary. What does the FBI know, where is the witness, how many guards. He gives them his name, after the third nail. It takes another three to drag his old rank out of him. The first broken finger earns half his serial number, but the breaking of a second cuts it off in a scream. Name. Rank. Serial number. Name. Rank. Serial number. Name. Rank. Social – damnit, wrong number. Things are starting to blur.

His hands are tied in front of him and he looks down dispassionately. No nails. Ten fingers that are dislocated, broken, or both. A fair bit of blood. He winces slightly.

"Where?"

"Downtown." He answers, sullenly. He hates even that small concession.

"Good." One of the men says with false pleasure. He's built like a bull terrier, all muscle and teeth. "Be more specific. Where downtown? How many guards?"

Colby doesn't answer, too focused on the knife dangerously trailing down his left cheek.

"Now, now." The terrier says, and taps Colby's face sharply with the muzzle of his own Beretta. "Focus." The man raises a hand slightly and the knife against Colby's cheek vanishes. "Where, specifically, is the safe house? How many guards?"

"Markem street, blue house, three guards." It's an old haunt, vacant. Safe to divulge.

"We are not stupid, _Agent_." The title is used mockingly. "Nor are we playing." Someone grabs him from behind, wrenching his jaw open. "You should know that by now." The terrier man is close now, crouching to look Colby in the eye. He can't move his head much, but his feet are still unrestrained and so he kicks out with as much force as he can. He feels his boot connect with flesh and then a shout of pain and a volley of brutal punches to his head and abdomen.

"Enough!" The man he kicked, the dog like one, is clearly in command. "That was a poor decision." He says, and nods at the man hovering by Colby's face. He leans in, brandishing the same pliers that were used to yank Colby's nails. After the fourth molar is pulled they release his head and he lets if fall forward, chin hitting his chest. He whimpers, unable to clench his teeth to keep the sound back.

"You make this difficult for yourself. If you answer our questions, stop resisting, we would not have to keep hurting you. Perhaps, if your information checks out, we could even give you morphine. A fatal dose, of course, but a much nicer way to go." Colby spits at him, more blood then saliva. The man clicks his tongue in annoyance.

"You can live for days you know, slowly loosing blood and body parts. Do you really want that? A slow end filled with suffering to protect, what, exactly? A witness you don't know?"

Where is the calvary? Where are Don and David? Why hasn't Charlie figured out where he is? Colby shakes his head desperately, eyes darting. The men around him jeer and kick at him.

"They aren't coming. They care more about a witness they've just met than their own team mate. Why reward that poor brand of loyalty?" Loyalty. Colby nearly laughs. It, above anything else, has defined his life – he's been tortured for it, hell he's been _killed_ for it. He takes in a shuddering breath, his resolve returning. He bore years of double faced, triple threat loyalty to his country. He can bear this.

"Go to hell." He snaps. His face is so numb from pain he barely even feels the viscous backhand his words earn him. There is a moment's respite, and then the terrier man speaks again.

"Very well. Perhaps it is time to try a different technique." He stands from his crouch, the leather of his double holsters creaking slightly. "Something a bit more…American." He sounds amused, even over the noise of the running water. When he returns to the chair Colby is tied to, he's carrying a towel and a pair of water filled jugs. "You president says this is legal, ja?" The man asks rhetorically, covering Colby's face with the grimy terrycloth.

The waterboarding is not so painful as broken bones or pulled fingernails, but it sparks a primal panic that proves more effective than mere pain.

"Stop!" After three rounds of simulated drowning his voice is rough and he is coughing heavily.

"You are ready to answer?" The man asks. Colby feels the words on the tip of his tongue, wants to let them bubble forth and end the pain, but he is frozen.

"It would seem not." His interrogator says with disappointment. Through the shroud of cloth, Colby can see him lift the jug.

The new round is no more pleasant then the others and it becomes harder and harder to catch his breath. He imagines he can hear the water in his lungs as he takes each ragged breath.

"They're keeping him on market street, between fifth and ninth." He finally blurts out. He feels his stomach drop as soon as the words are out.

"And?" He's prompted, a dribble of water across his forehead providing motivation.

"I…I don't…" He can't do this.

"Come now, just a bit more." The grip on his head and neck tightens and the flow of water increases.

"An apartment!" He splutters, thrashing away. "The Steward Suites." Right street. Wrong building. Damnation held off, for now.

"What floor?" Colby hesitates. The towel is removed from his face and he blinks past the water droplets to look at his interrogator. "What. Floor." The man repeats, gripping Colby's chin with one beefy hand.

"Eighth. Last room on the left, end of the hall." Then man stares at him for a long moment, searching, then releases his face. Colby is a good liar.

"We will see how accurate your information is." He turns sharply, disappearing behind Colby. There's the sound of a phone dialing. One of the men, the giant that held his jaw open, pulls out a worn pack of cigarettes and lights one. In the background the terrier is barking sharp orders into his phone.

"You are not very impressive." The smoking man says abruptly, regarding Colby with a bored expression. "You are weak." He shakes his head. "I expected more, of the great American F-B-I." Colby doesn't waste energy with a reply.

"Gunther, setzen dass schmutzige sache heraus." The terrier man is back and not, apparently, a fan of smoking.

"Warum so wütend, Wilhelm?" Gunther mutters, causally snuffing out the cigarette on Colby's forearm.

"Keine namen!"

"Fein, fein."

"We wait now." Wilhelm says to Colby. He keeps the fear off his face with some last vestige of control, clinging to the thought that rescue will arrive before his lie is discovered. It will. It must.

Time passes. Rescue does not come. Gunther slides a plastic restraint over his bleeding arm, tightening it above the wound. It would be a nice gesture, if Colby weren't certain they only slowed the bleeding so he would live long enough for them to get answers.

A cell phone rings, the sound loud and startling in the echoing interior of the warehouse. Colby is not the only one that jumps.

"Ja?" There is a moment of silence and then the phone snaps shut with an ominous click. There is a tense pause.

"Ist der zeuge weg?" Gunther asks, tapping his crumpled box of smokes against one leg.

"No." Wilhelm replies, in English. "The witness is not gone." He lifts the crowbar from the floor, holding it loosely in one hand. "You are a slow learner." He tells Colby and hefts his crude weapon.

The man is as strong as he looks. It only takes a few precise swings of the metal rod to snap Colby's ankle and drive bone fragments through the skin.

"Now." The man says, when Colby finally stops screaming. "Tell me. Do not lie."

"The Marriot next to the apartments. Fifth floor" He grinds out, forcing the words through a raw throat and bloodied mouth. He's so tired. How long has it been? Five minutes? An hour? Two days? He doesn't know, doesn't care. He just wants it to be over.

The crowbar hits the kneecap above his ruined ankle. Once, twice. "I do not have time for games, Agent. Answer me truthfully, or the next thing I take are your eyes."

Colby breaks. It is not a dramatic fall, just a subtle slump of his already bowed shoulders. "Fourth floor. Room two twenty."

"How many guards?"

"Three."

"Positions?" Wilhelm snaps, holding the crowbar warningly against Colby's knee.

"One on the door, one with the witness, one resting."

"Floor plan?" He's prompted.

"Bathroom to the right of the entrance, short hallway to a bedroom, double beds." Colby can feel every word digging him deeper into a grave of his own making.

"Very good." Wilhelm praises him like a reluctantly obeying dog. "Kommen!" he orders his men. Gunther releases his hold of Colby and the other men, the one who pulled his teeth and a pair toting automatic weapons, begin to walk away.

"Wait!" He cries weakly. "What about the morphine?" Wilhelm pauses, turning to look at him with a cruel smile.

"That was if you behaved. I hardly think you deserve it now. Relax." He adds, resuming his steady march out of the warehouse. "They will not find you here. You are assured a quiet death. " The door slams behind the men, echoing oddly off the walls.

He is alone. Alone, injured, abandoned. Colby's vision blurs with tears, the salty liquid clearing stinging tracks down his bloodied face. He gave up the witness. He traded an innocent life, a life capable of bringing down an entire crime ring, for his own comfort.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid." He mutters, a furious litany as he rocks the chair back and forth. He's bound to it, plastic ties over his mangled wrists, and his motions succeed only in tipping him to the floor, chair and all. He screams hoarsely in pain, the sound ripping at his already raw throat.

The scream dissolves into sobs, near silent gasps of breath. There are no more tears, and some distant corner of his mind knows that means he's dehydrated. He wonders if it's a measure of how long he's been held, or merely a symptom of blood loss.

Colby presses his face into the cool concrete floor, sobs slowly tapering off into exhausted silence. He's tired, weighed heavy with pain and guilt. He can smell the metallic tang of blood growing stronger in the air, but it doesn't seem important. Nothing is, not really, only the beckoning darkness. He sighs, a wispy little sound, and lets his eyes drift shut.

In the distance he hears sirens, but they fade quickly. He is too tired for disappointment. After a while they return and this time, they do not fade. They become louder and louder until he thinks they must be right outside.

There's the crash of a door being kicked open and the clipped words of a tactical team sweeping the building. He stays still and silent, not quite believing that he's been found.

"I see him!" He blinks. David? There are pounding footfalls and his face crumples in exhausted relief as the familiar face comes into view.

"Oh god." David's rifling through his pockets and for a moment Colby thinks he's going to start smoking like the German. Instead, he pulls out a knife and every so carefully begins to cut the restraints.

"Get EMS in here!" Don shouts, dropping to his knees beside David. It's a new agony, being freed from the chair, and Colby can't contain his groans of pain.

"Shhh, shhh." David sooths, letting the knife drop as the last of the restraints come away and cradling Colby's head in gentle hands. "We gottcha man, it's okay, it's alright."

"Kai'er?" He slurs questioningly. Please, please, please…

"He's fine man, he's safe." David assures.

"We're not getting a line in this arm." One of the paramedics snaps, his touch feather light against Colby's hot skin. He hadn't noticed them arriving.

"I got a large bore in the left, it'll have to do." Another medic says.

"Bu' I gave...I told…" Colby flounders at David, words and thoughts escaping into a maelstrom of sensation. He's too lost to even protest as the remains of his pants and shirt are cut away.

"Oh hell." The medic who removed his pants says suddenly, bent over Colby's ruined ankle. "We need to stabilize this thing before we move him."

"Kaiser is safe, Colby, he's fine." Don's voice draws his attention back. The senior agent's words are exhausted, but honest. "You did good. He's safe." Colby wants to tell them that he broke, divulged the precious location, but a flare of agony as his ankle is splinted robs him of the chance.

He must have blacked out, because his next conscious thought is that he is still in the warehouse, and he's restrained again.

"Easy there." Someone says softly, by his left ear. An unfamiliar hand touches him gently on the shoulder. "We've got you in a neck brace and strapped down to a backboard. You understand?" There's the rapid, irritating beep of a heart monitor somewhere close by and it seems difficult to think through the sound.

"Yeah." Colby agrees after a moment.

"I'm Jason, okay? I'm one of the medics taking care of you right now. We're gonna get you loaded up real soon, alright, get you to a hospital." As he speaks the man drags a silver thermal blanket across Colby's prone form. The thin material seems a hopeless barrier against the shivers that wrack his body. "I just need you to stay with me now, don't go to sleep."

"'m tired." Colby murmurs, the fear the restraints brought on quickly melting into a deep pool of exhaustion.

"I know, I know, but hang on a little longer for us, okay?" Jason says something Colby can't hear, and there's the sensation of being lifted. He groans, even the slight movement causing more pain.

"C'mon man, don't give up now." It's David again, back by his head, voice reassuringly even. Colby doesn't reply, but does his best to keep his eyes open.

It's dusk, cool evening air wafting over his skin as they roll him to the ambulance. Above him a few mighty stars have broken through the perpetual city haze and he stares at them until they vanish from his line of sight.

There are slamming doors and more movement and the whoop of sirens overhead. He lets it roll around him for a time, lost in pain and shock and guilt.

"Pulse is still rising. What's his O2?" Jason sharp question to the other medic brings Colby back to full awareness

"Ninety and dropping. Intubate?" Someone pries his jaws open and he panics, thrashing weakly. After a moment the grip is released.

"His throat's swollen all to hell, I'm not sure I can get a tube in. Turn up the flow on that mask. Agent Epps?" Colby starts; he hadn't realized Don was in the ambulance.

"Yeah?" Don asks. He sounds close.

"Talk to him for me, would you? We need him to stay calm."

"Hey, Colby." Don crouches over him, concern heavily etched on his features. "Settle down okay? We've got you, you're safe."

"I told them." Colby whispers, hopelessly. "I told them where Kaiser was." Guilt and disgust wind tighter around him and he gasps for breath. "I told them!" He wails thinly.

"Hey!" Don's voice is sharp now, and he taps Colby firmly on one cheek. "Everyone breaks under torture Colby. Everyone. You hear me?!"

"But I _told _them." Colby says again, fainter this time.

"Yes, you did." Don agreed bluntly. "You told them, but not without a hellofa fight. Kaiser is fine. You're…" Don pauses, clearly realizing that Colby is anything but fine. "You're alive."

"How far out are we?" Jason shouts at the driver, over the shriek of the sirens.

"Five minutes." Comes the reply. Jason doesn't relax, just grabs for a radio.

"UCLA Trauma, this is medical transport Bravo, coming at you priority one. Five minutes away."

"Copy Bravo, relay patient stats." The voice on the other end of the radio is calm, but the interference makes Colby's head hurt.

"Male, mid thirties, multiple blunt force injuries. Bleeding controlled in field, lost at least three units on site. Possible head trauma. Pulse is 140 and trending upwards, resps 45, O2 86 and falling. BP is 160 over 100."

"Copy Bravo, see you soon." The radio goes quiet.

"Almost there." The medic tells Colby. "Just stay with us now, you're doing great."

"Whe's David?" Colby asks in a faint whisper. He can't remember exactly when the other agent disappeared.

"Right in front of us." Don reassures him. "Helping to clear the way." Colby doesn't get a chance to respond – the ambulance pulls to a jolting stop and there's a flurry of activity. He feels a wash of air across his face and a painful jolt as the gurney's pulled from the ambulance.

"Alright." Jason said, leaning low by Colby's ear. "I know you're tired, in pain, but I need you to bear with me a little longer . There's going to be a lot of things happening very quickly, so take a few deep breaths, try to stay calm." Easy for him to say. Already the harsh lights and sharp smells are making Colby tense up.

"Trauma bay two." A new voice says, and the gurney takes a sharp turn to the right. "Got the stats on the radio, they change?" The voice asks and then, "On my count, one, two, three." A great jerk of movement and he's set down on another gurney.

"Pulse, resps and BP all rising, O2 holding steady." Jason's hands and other, unfamiliar ones, are reaching across his body, releasing straps and fussing with tubes and wires.

"What's his name?"

"Agent Colby Granger." Don replies, from somewhere off to the side. "He's with the FBI."

"What the hell happened to his hands?" A sharp female voice asks, cool fingers touching one broken finger. Colby whimpers.

"He was tortured." David says, speaking with a chilly, forced calm.

"How's his consciousness level been?" Yet another new voice, a young male this time.

"In and out on the scene, been mostly with us on the way over." Jason replies quickly.

"I want a full set of cranial, cervical and thoracic x-rays in my hands in ten minutes people!" The female again. She leans over him, strands of her strawberry blond hair escaping their loose bun. "Agent Granger, I'm Allison, the trauma fellow that will be handling your case. I need you to stay awake for me, alright?" She doesn't wait for an answer, spinning out of Colby's limited sight range.

"This arm is swollen pretty badly, don't think the line will last. Let's get a central in and pull some blood for a CBC, metabolic and cross panel. Is that o-neg on its way?"

"Here!" Someone says, and the sanguine bags are passed over him.

"Hang one unit, ease up on those fluids." Allison orders.

"No pulse in the right ankle. Did someone page ortho?" It's the young man again, the one who asked how much he'd been conscious.

"On their way." Another voice replies. Colby can hear Don and David's tense voices, but can't make out the words. Everything is vague, cushioned by a layer of shock and exhaustion. He lays still and pliant, even as they pierce his jugular for the central line and push in a catheter for urine.

"Blood in the foley!" Someone calls out.

"His abdomen's bruised pretty heavily, probably his kidneys. What're his stats?" Allison asked.

"Pulse 180, BP 90/60, O2 is 83, resps 30." Colby doesn't need to see the worried faces to know that his falling blood pressure and slowing respirations are ominous signs. He's not calming down – his body is giving out.

"Got the x-rays!" Someone shouts, and the doctors swarm on the films.

"Blood in the abdominal cavity." One says immediately. "Around the spleen and both kidneys."

"Hairline fracture in the right parietal region." Allison notes, leaning in on the images of his skull. "How's his chest look?"

"Some rib fractures, doesn't look like they punctured anything. Fluid in the lungs though. Might be blood."

"Tell CT we're coming up." Allison decides quickly. "We've got to get better images." Her colleagues must agree, because they're back around Colby before she's even finished speaking. Someone throws a blanket over him, another transfers his heart leads to a portable monitor.

"Agent, you still with me?" Allison asks, leaning over Colby.

"Mmm." He says, the sound slipping out between cold lips.

"You're bleeding internally. We're taking you for a cat scan, then to surgery. You understand?"

"Why no' strai' to sur'ery?" He slurs.

"We have to get a better idea of where you're injured." The doctor tells him, as the gurney starts to move. "You've got a skull fracture, fluid in your lungs…We need to know which one takes priority."

"My leg?" Colby asks. The doctor squeezes his shoulder lightly.

"We'll do everything we can." She tells him. Colby closes his eyes against her pitying gaze.

"Alright, just lay still we'll do all the work for you." The young male doctor says, a few moments later. There's a painful slide of movement that makes him groan, and then he's still again.

"Still with us?" Allison asks. It takes him long seconds to dredge up the energy for a response to the now familiar question.

"Still." He whispers.

"We're injecting contrast dye." She tells him, moving near his head. "It might make you feel a little funny, but it'll wear off quick." He can't tell if the strange sensation is the dye, or death. He still hasn't decided when the scans are abruptly ended and the room floods with people.

"Heart rate's 200!"

He doesn't remember dying, last time. He wonders if it was like this, if he felt the same inevitable slide into darkness, if the hopeless panic that fills him now was tantamount

"He's circling the drain people, let's move it!"

He has willingly sacrificed many things but this last is one he can not bear to part with.

" – pressure falling!"

His face, tense with pain, begins to slacken.

"Ventricular fibril –"

Do no go gentle into that good night, they say. Yet he can do nothing but.

The heart monitor screams, its erratic movements dropping into a flat, deadly line.

* * *

English to German Translations (my German is very weak, so I may have mangled these):  
Ja - Yes  
Gunther, setzen dass schmutzige sache heraus - Gunther, put that filthy thing out  
Warum so wütend, Wilhelm - Why so angry, Wilhelm  
Keine namen - No names!  
Fein, fein - Fine, fine.  
Ist der zeuge weg - Is the witness gone?  
Kommen – Come

A/N: Torture as a method of interrogation persists because, sooner or later, everyone breaks. That does not make it an appropriate or effective method of extracting confessions and information, nor does it justify its use.  
This chapter received some minor editing when the second chapter was added and a few minor details differ from the original version.  
And yes, I did steal one of my own phrases from another story. The line "Time passes. Rescue does not come." also appears in Probablity.


	2. Chapter 2

Title:

The Virtue of Conflict

**Rating:** PG-13 for character whump and some strong words

**Summary:** What does not kill us…

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the recognizable/original characters, places or things. I made no profit off of this story. I do own this plot and any new characters/places/things.

**WARNING:** There is a fair bit of graphic torture and trauma in this story. It is the reader's responsibility to decide whether they will find the material objectionable.

* * *

Kandahar in summer is a trial of endurance, brutally hot days broken only by the shadow of dust laden winds. Even at night the province burns, the bare rock of the landscape releasing heat captured through the long day. So there is little sense to the shivers that wrack Colby's body, or the gooseflesh rising swiftly on his skin. He would think it fear, the feeling that has stolen his breath and made him tremble, but there no use for such emotion here. Fear will not save you from a burning vehicle, it will not subdue the enemy, and so he has long since abandoned it. Colby clenches his teeth against another tremor and tilts his head upwards, searching for a distraction from his discomfort. The stars burn brilliantly here, freed from the veil of city lights and rainy clouds. He has always found refuge in the heavens, drifting in the endless depths, and it is no less so now. He watches the stars wheel across the sky, until the sun appears over the distant curve of the horizon and burns everything away in a blinding flare of light.

"Keep an eye on his temperature." A voice says. It's female, vaguely familiar. "With the water in his lungs we're probably going to see some pneumonia."

"You want us to ease up on the sedation?" Someone, male this time, asks softly.

"Not yet." The female again. Alysa? Allison? He isn't sure. "I'd like to keep him snowed under for the next ten to twelve at least, until we're ready to extubate."

"Any chance you'd authorize some for the other agents?" The man asks quietly. "I've seen open heart teams more relaxed then they are."

"Just be glad the social worker thought to lure them out of the unit with sandwiches." The woman tells him. "We lost the jurisdictional pissing contest, so they'll be coming and going as they please."

The man snorts, but does not say more on the subject. He remains silent, and after a moment his colleague asks "What did his creatinine clearance show?"

"Kidney function is down, but not critically."

"Probably the trauma. He did have a few small kidney lacs though, did you do a Doppler to check blood flow?"

"Yeah, it looked fine. Good perfusion and no sign of bleeding."

"Alright. Let's make sure we get serial serum creatinine levels and stay on his electrolyte and fluid levels. Keep me updated, I don't want to loose this one."

"Will do." There's the sound of papers being shuffled and then "You know anything about what happened to him? His picture is all over the news. They're saying he was investigating the attack on that German ambassador."

"The FBI's been pretty tight lipped." The woman replies. Colby feels her touch one of his swollen hands and he flinches, ever so slightly. The soft fingers retreat. "Whatever happened, I hope they catch the bastards that did this to him."

The words are meaningless to Colby, as are the jagged bits of memory that float in his mind. Confused and too exhausted for thought, he sinks back into the welcoming darkness.

* * *

Awareness rolls over him like a dream, light and fast and barely there. Voices filter through the fog and though they are familiar, he cannot bring details to mind.

"How's he doing?" The tone is low and roughened with stress.

"The same, I guess. Still on the ventilator." There's a pause and then, "How'd the forensic team make out?"

"The scene was pretty contaminated, but they were able to get some trace. It'll be a few more hours – "

Colby sinks abruptly back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Colby hadn't though anything could eclipse the strength of the Afghani sun, but the heat of the flames has proven him wrong. He can not quite believe the blast did not kill him, although the fire it seeded may yet do the job. His legs are trapped by explosion twisted metal and he is held fast, unable to escape the growing heat.

"Colby!" He reels, looking for the voice. "I'm coming!" Dwayne. It's Dwayne. Dwayne, who has always had his back, who has it still. Colby feels strong hands fasten around the shoulders of his vest and then a sharp, agonizing pull. He grunts and Dwayne curses. The other man yanks again, harder.

"No good." Colby coughs out. "I'm stuck." The scent of gasoline makes it difficult to breathe. "Get out!" He urges, with as much force as he can put into his voice.

Dwayne shakes his head in a firm negative, and pulls again. This time Colby feels something snap and suddenly he is sliding loose. He tries to sigh in relief, but his chest is frozen. The sound of bullets flying and fires burning begin to fade, replaced by a repetitive beeping. Bomb, Colby thinks. He tries to say something, scream a warning, but he can't manage it and the beeping becomes faster and faster until –

"Easy now." A cool, American voice tells him. "Breathe, just breathe." Colby is trying, but the need to cough is overwhelming. "We've taken the tube out of your throat." The voice says, voice soft and soothing. "Steady breaths. In and out." He thinks he's in a hospital. Did the bomb go off?

"O2's coming back up." Another voice mummers.

"There we go, just keep breathing." Was there a bomb? He isn't sure anymore. "Let me know if he starts getting agitated. I don't want to have to re-intubate."

"Don't you get off shift soon?" Something warm and soft is drawn up his body and Colby relaxes into the sensation.

"Five minutes ago." He hears rubber snapping. Gloves being removed? "I was here when he came in. Wanted to stick around, see if we could get him extubated."

"I heard you nearly lost him in CT."

"Yeah, and twice more in surgery."

"Tough guy."

"He's hanging in there. Just hope it lasts." If the man answers, Colby doesn't hear. He's sinking again, tendrils of unconsciousness reaching up to wrap their dark arms about his heavy form. He lets them, for now.

* * *

There is a primal beauty to Afghanistan, a wild edge far removed from the tamed shores Colby hails from. Peace can be found here, even in the midst of conflict. It is as if the land itself has a voice, saying that it has seen the pendulum swing from war to peace and back again so many times that it knows this furor will fade in time. On days such as this, when high clouds web the glorious sunset painted sky, Colby almost believes it.

"Agent, agent can you open your eyes for me?" A voice asks, breaking his reviver. Something jabs him sharply in the sternum and he grunts, hands grasping reflexively at the ground beneath him. He expects sand, tiny grains rough against his skin, but what he feels is wrong, the texture confusing. "Colby, open your eyes for me." Soft fingers separate his lids and Colby, loath though he is to wake, drags himself from the heated sands of his memory.

"Good." The voice praises. "Do you know where you are?" It asks. Colby huffs out an indistinct answer. Awareness is returning, if not memory, and his body is a mass of pain. "You're in the hospital." It sounds like a man, young and focused. Colby lets his eyes fall shut again. An indeterminate amount of time passes as he ignores further demands.

"Hey, he respond at all?" A new voice says. It seems slightly familiar.

"With a bit of urging." The young man says. "Still pretty out of it though. When was his last CT?" There's the sound of rustling papers.

"About thirty hours ago. Right before surgery."

"How'd his head look?"

"Decent. Fracture was stable, no bleeding or swelling. You worried?"

"A bit."

"Did you check his reflexes?" There's a rustle of fabric. A shrug, maybe?

"It's hard to get anything with all the swelling."

"Still, I'd rather not move him just yet." Somewhere nearby a pen taps rapidly against plastic. "Let's hold off on another scan for now. Give the sedation some more time to wear off."

The man hums noncommittally and then asks, "Another six hours?"

"Sounds good." The woman agrees briskly. Changing subjects, she asks "How's his leg looking?"

"Ortho screwed everything back together, but they weren't optimistic." Something, a gloved fingertip, touches his leg briefly. He can sense the pressure, but nothing else. This strikes him as a bad sign, but he can't work up much concern. The voices continue, but Colby doesn't listen. He's simply too tired.

* * *

The sharp scent of salt water and rusted metal jerks Colby to awareness. He reels, looking for the sun and sand of Afghanistan. He was just there – wasn't he? He's tied to a chair, feet pressed against the softly vibrating floor. He recognizes this place, the information his senses feed him, and it does not calm his mind. Each second the engines churn is one closer to unfriendly waters. A video camera watches him blankly, its wide eye unblinkingly capturing his torment. Lancer stands before him, cool, collected, completely uncompromising. He opens his mouth and Colby braces for another question he can not, will not, answer.

"Easy man, easy." The voice is wrong, too familiar, too friendly. The boat flickers uncertainly. "Justa dream. Nothing to get worked up about." Lancer fades from view and Colby, truly awake this time, opens his eyes.

"Dav'd?" He slurs uncertainly. The room is dim, although not fully dark, and his vision is too blurry to make out more then vague shapes.

"Yeah man. It's me." Colby blinks a few times, slowly, and some of the haze fades.

"Wha' happened?" His voice is a bare whisper, muffled further by the mask over his nose and mouth, and David leans close to catch the words.

"You're in the hospital." The agent explains softly. Next to him, a women in pale green scrubs methodically checks the machines that surround Colby.

"'ryone safe?" Colby slurs, an edge of desperation to his tone. He doesn't trust the fuzzy memories he has.

"Yeah, yeah, everyone's fine." David assures him. "Everything's gonna be alright." He adds, right before Colby passes out again.

* * *

When he next opens his eyes there's sunlight shining on his face and Don is sleeping in a chair beside his bed, a pen and file folder still held loosely in one hand.

"Hey." Colby says. His battered throat can't work up more than the barest whisper, but it's enough to make the other agent jerk awake.

"Colby." Don rubs a hand across his face, once, twice, a third time, then asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah." He is, actually. There's a vague memory of pain and cotton headed confusion in the not too distant past but right now he's not feeling much of anything.

"You remember where you are?" Don asks him, in a tone that implies he's not expecting much.

"Hospital."

"Yeah." The other agent is silent for a moment, and then says, "Do you remember what happened? Who hurt you?"

Colby blinks. He's hurt? "They spoke German." He manages, after a long moment. He isn't sure where the information came from, but it seems right. Don nods, like it makes sense. Colby considers saying something else, but he falls asleep before he can figure out what.

* * *

"Jesus Christ, how can you tell me not to be angry?" Sharp, harshly hushed voices wake Colby. He doesn't bother to open his eyes. It seems like too much work. "Have you _seen_ him?" David snaps. "What they did to him? How can I _not_ be angry?" David's voice is rough and angry.

"You need to keep it together." Liz snapped back. "We're about five seconds from getting this cased pulled from us because of over-involvement and you're not helping Don make his case!" Something dropped heavily onto a nearby surface – probably David sitting down.

"Fine. Right." A pause. "Did you take care of Kaiser?"

"He testified a few hours ago and was on the plane twenty five minutes later. He's not our problem anymore."

"Small favors. We certainly gave enough to protect him."

"Has Colby said anything?" Liz asked. "Are we sure this is connected to the Alcor case and not another one?"

David sighed. "Don told me he woke up for a few minutes and said something about people speaking German. How many criminals that are fluent in German do you know who are pissed off enough to abduct and torture a federal agent?"

"Right."

"Did Amita get anything off the tapes from the parking garage?"

"She's still working with the tech guys. They think they might have a plate number in a reflection on the window of another car, but Amita said it'll be a few hours."

Colby goes back to sleep, soothed by the steady pattern of his teammates conversation.

* * *

"He knew who you were?" The woman's voice is starting to become familiar.

"Yeah." Don says, sounding exhausted. "I don't think he really knew what was going on though."

"That's pretty common, between the injuries he sustained and the medications he's receiving. The fact he recognized you is an excellent sign."

"Is he doing alright?" He hears Don shift his weight uncomfortably. "I mean, waking up means he's getting better, right?"

"It's a good sign, but Agent Granger is still in serious condition." The doctor sounds closer, like she's standing beside the bed. "His body has been through a lot."

"Right." Don doesn't sound comforted by the doctors words. That's fine, because Colby isn't either.

* * *

There is something small and cool pressed against his chest. It hold steady for a few moments, then moves to the other side. It hurts, despite the gentleness of the pressure, but its pain is overshadowed by the sharp agony of breathing.

"You look worried." It sounds like Charlie, blunt honesty with a raw edge of fear.

"We're having problems keeping your friend's oxygen saturation up." The person pressing on his chest concedes. Colby realizes he hasn't bothered to open his eyes; it must appear as if he is still unconscious. "He's making a good effort to breathe," The person continues, "but the air just isn't getting to where it needs to be."

"Pneumonia?"

Whatever was touching his chest disappeared and there was a rustle of fabric. "Maybe. There was fluid, water, in his lungs when he came in. We'll get some x-rays. If it is pneumonia, we'll see it."

"You can treat that though, right?" Colby isn't used to hearing Charlie like this. Normally he's the one with the answers, the solutions, not the soft and desperate questions.

"It depends on what's causing the inflammation." The doctor responded. "We're giving him antibiotics but it may take some time to find an effective one." A short pause. "He's made it this far. That's important." Soft, receding footsteps, and then, right by his ear, Charlie says,

"Hang in there, Colby."

Those are the last words he hears for a long time.

* * *

Awareness returns in bits and pieces. Colby can vaguely sense his chest rising and falling but does not think he is in control of the movement. It is very disconcerting.

"– starting to breathe over the vent –"

" – few more hours –"

"– lung function –"

He stretches his fingers out fitfully and pauses in surprise when they move as requested. After a moment, he curls the stiff digits into loose fists. They ache, but not unbearably.

"– some voluntary movement –"

"– blood pressure has been more stable –"

"– another chest x-ray –"

He feels cold and sluggish and is contemplating going to sleep when someone says, "Let's go." Before Colby can figure out what they're talking about the tube in his throat is ripped out and his world suddenly snaps into painful focus.

"Easy." Someone says. "The coughing will pass." The voice tells him. "Just try to breathe through it." Colby feels someone put a mask over his nose and mouth, slipping the elastic strap over his head to hold it in place. He gasps on the cool air it provides for several uncomfortable moments, but slowly he gains a measure of control.

"Okay, numbers are looking good." It's a woman speaking and the voice seems somewhat familiar. Colby opens his eyes without being prompted, squinting against the harsh light.

"Hey." She smiles slightly at him, her gaze flicking up to something over his head that he can't see and then back to his face. "You feel like you're breathing okay?" She asks.

Colby's nods slightly, not trusting his burning throat to manage words quite yet.

"Is your pain level alright?" She asks.

Colby considers, then nods again. His chest aches and his throat burns, but he feels more numb than anything.

"Good. We'll try to keep it that way." She tells him with another smile. She keeps talking, but the room begins to waver and Colby can't follow her words, so he goes to sleep.

* * *

When he wakes up, the lights in the room have been dimmed to a comfortable level and his head feels infinitely clearer.

"Hey buddy." Don says, leaning over him. He must have been sitting nearby and seen Colby's eyes open. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired." He swallows painfully.

"The doctor's were getting worried." Don tells him, the tight lines around his mouth telling Colby more than his words.

"What happened?"

"Your lungs weren't doing too well and the docs had to put you back on the ventilator. You've been out of it for a while."

"How long?"

"About three days."

"How's the case going?"

"You remember?"

"Yeah. Most of it." Colby scrubs a heavily bandaged hand across his face, trying to ignore how weak he felt. "Is Kaiser okay?"

"We got him in front of the grand jury, he testified, and he's off to a new life." Don says. "We're still looking for the guys that took you though."

"They were German."

"Yeah. You told me earlier." Don smiles slightly. "Amita was able to get a plate number off the car that grabbed you, but so far it hasn't shown up. In the meantime, we've been running down every criminal with ties to Germany that we can think of. Someone has to know these guys."

"The guy in charge was Wihelm." Colby offers, after a moment. "Mid-forties, Caucasian, brown hair and eyes." He pauses, thinking, "And Gunther. Little younger, real short hair, buzzed. Couldn't really tell what color." He pauses again, then adds, "He smoked a lot."

As Don writes the information down, Colby swallows painfully and says, "Look, Don, I'm sorry."

The other agent frowns. "For what?"

"Telling those guys about Kaiser. Where he was and everything."

"You don't need to apologize." Don tells him seriously. "You know that, right?"

Colby shrugs wearily. "I gave them what they wanted, Don. Information that seriously jeopardized the safety of our witness."

"You were tortured." Don taps the pen he's holding rapidly against one leg. "C'mon, you had what, two years of interrogation training? You know those methods work. Sooner or later everyone talks."

"Three years." Colby corrects in a mutter. Part of him acknowledges the truth to Don's words – Colby knew people broke, hell, he'd been the one to break some of them – but the greater part was caught up in the inescapable fact that, justified or not, he'd done something terrible.

"They came down on you hard, Colby." Don continued, "They wanted something and they didn't care if you had to die for them to get it. They nearly killed you."

"I've been tortured before." Colby points out. "Lancer _did_ kill me and I still didn't tell him anything."

"_Lancer_ didn't rip out your fingernails or shatter bones." Don says, running a hand through his already messy hair.

"I should have held out longer."

"You'd be dead." Don says bluntly, dropping his pen. It hits the file folder that's spread across his lap with a soft sound and Colby stares at it as the next few minutes pass in silence. Don speaks first.

"Look," he starts "What you went through…" He stops, breathes, and begins again, "You held out for a long time, Colby. They had you for hours, and from the timeline we've been able to work out they tortured you for most of it. Those men wanted something and they were going to get it, whether or not you were the one to give it to them."

Colby sighs, shrugging in resignation. He's too tired to argue. "Everyone else is okay, right?" He asked.

Don gives him a worried look, but accepts the change of topic. "They're all fine. Pissed off and shaken up, but unscathed."

Colby smiles slightly and opens his mouth to say something, but a wide yawn interrupts him. He can feel sleep welling up around him, dragging his eyelids lower and drowning coherent thought.

"Sleep." Don says. "We'll talk more later."

Colby is happy to oblige. As the room around him is fading, he feels Don squeeze his shoulder gently. "You're a hero, Colby. Don't think any different."

* * *

A/N:

I know this chapter has been a long time coming and for that I apologize. My lack of updates has nothing to do with doubting the support or desire of those reading for the story to continue. Please let me know what you think of the new chapter (or, if you're reading the story for the first time, both chapters) and I will do my very best to update more regularly!

To answer some questions that were asked in reviews for the first chapter, yes my German is terrible and probably makes no sense. I apologize.

Also, I have no real reason why the 'bad guys' are German…I needed a country that had diplomatic relations with the United States and whose citizens spoke something other than English. Beyond that, it was basically a random choice.

I've made a few small changes to chapter one as well as correcting some spelling issues.


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